I Would Sleep With You!
by smallsteps32
Summary: Douglas is having a bad few weeks. The last thing he needs is Martin Crieff standing in his sitting room spoiling for a fight of sorts.


**All the general disclaimers - none of this is mine - none that you recognise anyway.**

 **Hello all. I know I'm meant to be writing my high school AU, but I couldn't let this idea go. It came to me in a dream - literally. I hope you enjoy this piece - slightly too long to be a drabble.**

* * *

 **I Would Sleep With You!**

A miserable week had been followed by a week in which Douglas wished he were miserable, if only to stave off the boredom. The strain had been pressing down on him for a while – then an argument over the phone with his ex, a disagreement with his daughter, a mighty row with Carolyn, and he was stuck at home until he could muster up the gall to apologise.

In truth, Douglas was almost _relieved_ to have some time to himself. He hadn't picked up a bottle – yet – but he was itching for one and fighting the urge while he still could. It would have been easy to appease Carolyn, and yet the allure of a few days with his head on a pillow and his mind in a sleep-addled haze was too much to resist. The stress was exhausting, even more so as it had come from nowhere at all.

Those were the worst days, Douglas knew; the miserable ones that had no reason to exist.

It was with a foul mood in play that Douglas rose on Thursday morning to the chirping of birds and an empty fridge. Well, it wasn't empty. It just didn't contain the ingredients necessary to make the biggest, greasiest (although still salad filled) gourmet sandwich that he had woken up craving. So, doing nothing to alter his appearance other than slipping on some boots and a coat over his thick pyjamas, and ruffling his hair until it no longer fell in his face, Douglas took it upon himself to stroll down to the corner shop.

The walk did him good, as did the fresh air, and when Douglas arrived home with a bag swinging over his elbow, he was only slightly short of a good mood. Mellow was the word he would have used.

Mellow... of course, until he shut the front door and turned towards his sitting room – only to find Martin Crieff standing slap-bang in the centre in full uniform, arms stubbornly folded over his chest as his cheeks flushed red with frustration.

" _Martin_?"

"And where the hell have you been?" Martin demanded, ignoring the way Douglas startled. "A-actually, don't answer that. I can see _exactly_ where you've been."

Resignation washed through Douglas so quickly that there wasn't time to prepare for it. It was followed by a prickling annoyance at seeing his Captain – it was true that he had spent most of the week missing his crew-mates, but this wasn't quite what he had had in mind. The lack of faith in him wasn't even astounding.

Huffing, Douglas stepped past Martin and into the kitchen area, from which he could see straight to the front door and into the hall that would carry him to his room depending on which direction he was facing. Martin followed him every step, turning circles on the carpet in an attempt to keep him in his sights.

" _Douglas_!"

"Yes, Martin? Was there something you wanted?" Douglas inquired caustically, slipping the bag down to his hand so that he could grip it – so that he wasn't tempted to clench his hands and potentially punch something. "I assume there is, seeing as you broke in here."

"I didn't break in," Martin retorted. "Your door was open."

At that, Douglas' voice died in his throat. His eyes travelled towards the door, which now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember locking. Fitton wasn't exactly a hotbed of crime, but still – anyone living in the UK knew not to leave their doors unlocked – especially not when they were out.

Douglas closed his eyes for a moment and let the darkness sooth the persistent ringing in his head. He only opened them again when Martin's voice penetrated his addled haze.

"A-and besides, Douglas, I came over here to talk to you – to get _you_ to talk to Carolyn," Martin explained, gesticulating wildly with one hand. His chest was hitching with the effort of sounding both reasonable and defensive. "Look, I-I know things have been... difficult-"

"Do you _really?_ "

"N-no, actually, I don't – because you don't tell us when things are getting on top of you. B-but that doesn't mean I don't notice when you're out of sorts, o-or when you're struggling," Martin said. He took a few steps towards him, lessening the space between them. "A-and I know that what you _really_ need now, Douglas, is to get dressed, get down to the airfield, and get back to work. Y-you don't need _this_."

Martin concluded with a shaky jab at the bag in Douglas' hand.

Douglas' temper flared.

"As much as I appreciate your help, Martin, I don't need it," he said through gritted teeth. He couldn't quite make his feet carry him anywhere. All he _needed_ was for Martin to leave him alone, preferably by walking through the front door.

"S-see, we both know that isn't true-"

"Oh, we both do, do we?"

"Douglas, come on – talk to Carolyn. I'm sure she'd-"

"Right now, Martin, I don't _care_ what Carolyn has to say-"

"W-well you should!"

"Well, I _don't_!"

By the time Douglas was aware enough to catch his breath, Martin was even closer, shoulders as stiff and squared as his own. They were both glaring at one another, although he was sure that Martin's twisted lip and stubborn pout far outranked his own. Douglas couldn't get far enough past the aching desire to be left alone to feel any real apathy.

"Martin, please leave."

Martin shook his head.

"No, I won't," he said. "Not unless you're coming with me."

"Go to _work_ , Martin," Douglas hissed trough his teeth.

"No. I'm not leaving you in this state."

"Why not?"

Martin stammered, but he didn't get a full sentence out. That only grated on Douglas' nerves even more, even as it brought forth a rush of fondness – and even more discomfort at Martin's stubborn refusal to just _leave_.

"B-because I... I-I-I..."

"I'm not _in_ a state, Martin."

"Then what do you call this?"

"Oh, why do you care? What are you even _doing_ here?" Douglas demanded. The bag in his hand shook as he resisted the urge to point across the space as Martin was doing. "I don't need your pity-"

"You don't _have_ it!"

"Then what is it? Can't get off the runway without me? Has Carolyn got herself into another spot?"

"I-I'm here for _you-"_

"Since when do you give a damn-"

"I would sleep with you!" Martin declared – more of a high-pitched, panicked screech really. The words stopped Douglas dead, slapped into silence, temper replaced by stunned bewilderment. The colour that flooded Martin's cheeks as he pointed a shaking finger at Douglas' chest suggested he had meant to say he _did_ give a damn, but Martin wasn't about to admit that. Instead he clung to that stubborn precipice between knowing he was wrong and forcing himself to be right, and anxiously stammered, voice rising with each note. "I-I mean, I-I would sleep with you - a _lot_ – I-I would sleep with you a _lot,_ a-all of you..."

Martin trailed off as his finger travelled through the air, from Douglas' head to toe. Then, as Douglas stood motionless, the nervous energy seeped from him and he seemed to realise just what he had said. A hand flew to the back of his neck, scrubbing awkwardly as he rocked on his heel and puffed up his chest. Martin's eyes dropped to the floor and he flushed an even darker shade of red.

"I-I mean, um... a-a-I-I... th-that's not what I meant to say – I, um..." Martin cleared his throat and then steadfastly met Douglas' gaze. "I-I meant to say I _like_ you – I-I mean, I _care_ about you – as a _friend_... oh god..."

Although the haze was still churning inside Douglas' head, it had cleared enough that he could look at Martin through his confusion without a trace of irony or mockery. A part of him wasn't all that shocked – they had spent years as friends and it would have been hard to miss the... how close they had become – and yet... Douglas _was_ stunned. Stunned out of his misery at the very least.

He knew he should have said something. Instead, what left his mouth wasn't as useful as he had hoped.

"Have _you_ been drinking?"

Martin's head snapped up and he hastily shook his head.

"N- _no_! Of course not!" he exclaimed. "We've got a flight in three hours! I came over to make sure _you_ weren't drinking – a-and I was right to, b-because... well, _look._ "

Martin pointed again to the bag in Douglas' hand, which he had momentarily forgotten was there.

Douglas glanced down at the offending article, blinking through his surprise. For a moment, the crackling anger that had filled the room was gone, replaced by cool, clean air – and in that split-second's peace, something like a laugh bubbled to the corners of his lips. Shaking his head, Douglas finally convinced his feet to move and took a few steps across the room.

"This isn't a _joke_ , Douglas," Martin said when there were mere feet of air between them.

"Oh, I know it's not," Douglas replied dryly. He pushed the bag into Martin's grasp and stepped back. "I do think, however, that I'd have a hard time drinking _anything_ from _that_ bag - unless you're planning on making me a bread and lettuce smoothie."

Martin's eyebrows rose to his hairline as he hastily peered inside the bag.

"Y-you mean..."

"I wanted a sandwich, Martin," Douglas assured him. "Hardly the crime of the century."

"O-oh..." Martin seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he snapped to attention, eyes boring into Douglas' as he regain his Captain-like fervour. "That's irrelevant, really – i-it doesn't matter. What you're going to do, right now – F-first Officer – is march into your bedroom, put on something that _isn't_ pyjamas – I don't care if it's your uniform or a jumper – a-and then you're going to come to the airfield and convince Carolyn that you want to work."

In spite of himself, Douglas knew that Martin was right. Flying wouldn't fix his sour mood, but it might make him feel better enough for his mood to slowly slip away over the next few weeks. Nevertheless, he didn't move at first.

"March?" he repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"Quick march," Martin snapped. He pointed out into the hall. "Go on – before I change my mind and go without you."

Without another word, Douglas made his exit. He made it half way down the hall before turning back, appearing in the doorway to find Martin standing exactly where he had been moments before.

"You would _sleep_ with me?" Douglas said aloud, testing the words in his mouth. In truth, he wasn't even sure that he had _heard_ them the first time – they sat apart from the rest of the conversation.

Martin startled out of his trance and turned on Douglas with eyes that might have burst into flames had Martin had half the power he seemed to think he had.

"Go and get dressed!"

Douglas threw his hands up in surrender and strolled leisurely to his room. In twenty minutes – long enough for Martin's patience to have frayed no doubt – he wandered out in full uniform, hair combed, hat balanced atop his head. If he was going to grovel, he might as well go dressed as if he had already won his seat back.

What Douglas found in the kitchen, however, was not a frantically pacing Martin. Instead, Martin was standing at the counter with his bag of groceries emptied at his elbow, slowly but surely constructing a sandwich. His gaze was unfocused, hovering somewhere near the sink, and he barely reacted until Douglas was standing at his side. Even then, he spared the other man a fleeting glance.

"I-I feel quite bad about accusing you of drinking," Martin murmured loud enough for him to hear as he motioned towards the various ingredients with a blunt knife.

A guilty sort of affection filtered through Douglas as he settled back against the counter and buried his hands in his pockets.

"There's no need, Martin," he replied. "It was a near choice between the bread and the pinot noir."

"Pinot noir? At this time of the morning?"

"Oh, my apologies, Martin, you're absolutely right," Douglas drawled. "Seven-fifteen in the morning deserves more of a single-malt."

"Yes, yes, alright," Martin sighed. Abandoning his efforts, he turned to Douglas and pushed down his sleeves, getting crumbs on the stripes and shaking them off with a scowl. This time, he refused to meet Douglas' eye. "So I was right to come over then?"

"Are you expecting a congratulations?"

"N-no, of course not," Martin grumbled. "B-but you know... you know, it's worrying – f-for all of us."

"Martin, leave it..."

To Douglas' relief, Martin clamped his mouth shut and nodded. To Douglas' despair, the moment he did, the room was quiet and there was space in his head to think other things. Noting the agitation on Martin's face and the irritable edge to his movements, Douglas didn't move any closer – but he also couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"You would _sleep_ with me?"

"It came out wrong, okay!" Martin exclaimed, discomfort lost in the red-faced insistence. "Th-there were about ten different things I was trying to say!"

Douglas scoffed and shook his head, and found his eyes travelling down to the floor without permission. That was intolerable, so he made a point of looking Martin in the eye.

"Well, I'll admit, it's not the worst thing that's been screamed at me."

"B-but don't you understand, Douglas. There were about _ten_ things I wanted to say – a-and they were all more important than... than _that_ ," Martin insisted. He didn't come any closer, but he didn't back away either. "I came here because I was _worried_ – and quite rightly too! The rest of us bow out at the slightest thing but _you_ – if you're here instead of at the airfield, there has to be _something_ wrong, a-and with your... your problems..."

"I'm an alcoholic, Martin. You can say it."

"Fine, with your alcoholism, I worried," Martin continued, undeterred. "A-and I worried that you wouldn't make up with Carolyn – b-because I _care_. A-and I... Douglas, we all miss you. I could fly on my own – I _could_ , don't look at me like that – b-but I don't want to. A-and... I shouldn't have to say this, Douglas. I'm your friend – b-but I'm also your Captain, a-and it's not my job to sit here and comfort you or let you wallow in self-pity. It's my job to get you off your arse when you're _being_ an arse and make sure you get past whatever problems you've got – if there even are problems – b-because I know sometimes people are just sad and irritable, a-and I get that, I do-"

Douglas wasn't sure of what came between, but the next he knew, his lips were on Martin's and Martin was making no effort to pull out of the kiss.

It lasted only a second – a moment of warmth and solidity beneath his hands – but Martin's hands were on his cheeks, then on his shoulders, and they were kissing for far longer than a second, barely moving but pressing hard enough that Douglas wasn't sure that Martin wasn't trying to fuse them together.

It ended only when Martin stepped back, awkwardly clearing his throat but far steadier than he had been minutes before. He was far redder as well.

For once, Douglas wasn't sure what to say. When he caught Martin's eye, Martin smiled and he felt his own lips curl upwards. His hands drifted up to smooth out his lapels, which he could tell were pulled out of place without even looking.

Eventually, it was Martin who spoke, similarly adjusting his epaulets.

"Y-you know, um... you know, i-if that was a continuation of the um... o-of what I said..." Martin couldn't seem to get through a whole sentence, even though the confidence was there. He adjusted the position of his hat and took a step away from the counter. "You know we don't... we don't actually have time for that."

Douglas let out a near-hysterical laugh before he could stop himself. The only saving grace was that it sounded more like a bark, and that Martin laughed as well, carefully coving his mouth with the back of his curled hand.

"Oh, believe me, Martin," Douglas remarked. "You'd have to buy me dinner first."

"Y-yes, maybe, ah... maybe I might – might have to do that," Martin replied. For a moment, the words hung between them. Then Martin snapped out of his trance and pushed back his sleeve to glance at his watch. Then he was a jittering flurry of movement. " _First_ – first, we need to get in the car, go to the airfield, and _get on the plane._ I need to get on the plane – _y-you_ need to talk to Carolyn, and _then_ get on the plane."

Reluctantly, sparing a mournful glance towards the hall which led to his bedroom and to the half-constructed sandwich, Douglas nodded.

"I suppose I can swallow my pride long enough to grovel," he said. "If you're all _missing_ me so much, that is."

To his relief, there were no more placations or insistences that they cared. Martin simply rolled his eyes and huffed. He patted Douglas' shoulder as he passed, and then made his way to the front door, where he waited and tapped his foot impatiently.

Douglas followed without a word, willing for once to do as he was told. For once, doing so seemed to be to his benefit.


End file.
